The Faceless Perspective
by Silver Tongued Wonder
Summary: They are the eyes that see, the minds that think, the hearts that feel. They know everything, they know nothing. They are the faceless perspective. Random characters' encounters with Katniss and Peeta, a series of drabbles.
1. Their Love Is The Milk

**Author's Note. **I wouldn't call these drabbles, because I doubt they're exactly 100 words in length. But in any case, they're short recollections of random character's encounters with Katniss and Peeta. Not in any particular order, of course, because I'm quite disorganized like that.

**This is in the perspective of the Capitol attendant in Catching Fire, pg. 194.**

* * *

He pushes through the door, the hot teapot of milk shifting slightly on the tray. He's not surprised to find them in a tight embrace, but a new wave of guilt rocks through his body. He gives his head a little shake, as if this can take away the strange feeling gleaning there.

Tentatively, he steps into the room and sets the tray on a table.

"I brought an extra cup," he suddenly blurts out.

The girl on fire nods. "Thanks."

"And I added a touch of honey to the milk." The words flowed out of his mouth. "For sweetness. And just a pinch of spice."

A silent moment. He's not sure what he wants to do. He wishes he knew what to say. But he doesn't.

He backs out of the room without another word, but thoughts are racing through his mind.

Their love is the milk, diluting whatever corrosive substance life throws at them. Their victory was a touch of honey—brief and so wistfully sweet. And the Quell—it is the spice.

Zesty, so packed with gusto. So fatally entrancing.

Their love is the milk.


	2. Death and Its Tendrils Are Sweet

**Author's Note. **This compilation doesn't have a lot of reviews, but strangely, I don't care :) I like doing them.

**Mag's perspective of the final seconds of her life in a somewhat poetic form.**

* * *

The night is cold, bearing neither sympathy nor mercy. The moon gleams an iridescent light, white upon white. There are no other hues—only this which hangs heavily upon her. With certain finality, she gives a peck on his lips and dances straight to the mist. It wraps its tender arms around her, engulfs her. The pain quickly passes, becoming what she skeptically believes is happiness.

Death and its tendrils are sweet.

They offer peace, and eternal rest. An escape from a world otherwise unavoidable.

Her knees buckle and she crumples to the ground. Her heartbeat slows. She feels the life draining from her body made fragile by time. Her eyelids flutter close, her soul barely hanging on to consciousness. Her chest moves only slightly now, and she knows the end is near. Yet amazingly, she does not fear.

With a soft, last sigh, she bids the cruel world goodbye.

Death and its tendrils are sweet.


	3. Then Comes Forth A Lovely Tune

**Author's Note. **I got more reviews today after posting my second chapter, so I was inspired to write a third.

**This chapter is in the perspective of the whistler from District 11 during the Victory Tour in Catching Fire, pg. 61.**

* * *

"Thank you for your children." She lifts her chin slightly, as if to stress her next words. "And thank you all for the bread."

Her voice echoes through the silent plaza and dies midmost the empty, sultry air. No amount of applause nor a book filled of appreciate words could depict the thanks of this district toward her, the Mockingjay, through whose actions their children will be set free of certain death.

He summons a piece of beauty from his memory—a melody that is in itself the embodiment of love, safety, family, and home.

Then comes forth a lovely tune, in the still atmosphere it rings undeniably clear. This moment, it adopts yet another meaning, and becomes the personification of rebellion.

He locks eyes with her. A final thanks he transmits through the gaze.

Three fingers lifted, extended toward the girl on fire is all it takes. Death is guaranteed him.

Through strangely enough, it is the last of his concerns.

Then comes forth a lovely tune.


	4. He Joins Them In Sweet Death

**Author's Note. **It's been so long since I've updated this compilation. It feels good to be writing again. I didn't intend for this chapter to be this long, but let's suppose I did as an apology for taking so long to post.

**This features the young man from District 2 who shot Katniss in Mockingjay, pg. 214-217.**

* * *

Shakily, he draws his weapon, raising it up toward her head.

He ignores the ache in his cheek, the sharp burning sensation in his back. He is entranced by the appearance of the Mockingjay, so beautiful yet dangerous. So beautiful that, even without the Capitol paint on her face, she glows. And so dangerous that, even as she approved the blowing of the Nut, she stands before him in pretentious diplomacy and he almost believes her to be sincere.

The Mockingjay flits a few steps back, raising her beautiful weapons above her head in surrender.

"Give me one reason I shouldn't shoot you," he garbles. He wants to know what the Mockingjay has to lose, he wants to know that she truly is vulnerable.

He watches her carefully, sees her lips form the surprising words even before he hears them with his own ears.

"I can't," is what she says.

The young man pauses, forefinger tense on the trigger. But something draws him to her, a feeling that there is more, so he waits.

"I can't," she repeats. "That's the problem, isn't it?" She lowers her bow, and he tenses. "We blew up your mine. You burned my district to the ground. We've got every reason to kill each other. So do it. Make the Capitol happy. I'm done killing their slaves for them."

She drops her elaborately designed weapons on the group, kicking it away with enough force to send it grazing at his knees. Now she is vulnerable, but not harmless. No, not harmless. The young man is convinced that the Mockingjay will never be harmless.

The young man swallows. "I'm not their slave." _I think_.

The Mockingjay surprises him again. "I am," she says. A pause. In that second, with the guilt painted across her features and regret tainting her tone, the young man believes her. He believes her. He lowers his gun slightly, but her next words catch it and hold it in place. "That's why I killed Cato... and he killed Thresh... and he killed Clove..."

The mention of Cato, of Clove, of the young man's old friends, slaps him in the face. Reminds him of why he truly is here. Why, after surviving the blast, his first and probably last move is to shoot the Mockingjay.

His pupils dilate, the Mockingjay goes out of focus, the whole world goes out of focus. She speaks, but he does not listen. Vaguely, he is aware of words passing through his lips, but all that is passing through his mind are the memories. The memories of Cato, of Clove, of the young man's old friends. And finally, the memories of their deaths.

Blood. Anger. Revenge. Rage.

He was right. He isn't a slave of the Capitol. But perhaps he is a slave of rage.

As he reaches that conclusion, his vision clears and pans together in an instant. Now he sees the Mockingjay. She's on her knees, reaching out her arms toward him.

"Please! Join us!" she begs.

The young man almost smiles. Yes, he will join them. He will join them in sweet death. He joins them in sweet death. He has long joined them in sweet death.

He waits. Her words die in the cold night air. She looks up, and his fingers close the distance between trigger and gun, life and death.

He watches the Mockingjay plunges backwards into the ground, unconscious. Almost surreally, he hears guns being fired, feels bullets penetrating his already frail skin, and he falls back as well. But he dies smiling.

After all, he joins them in sweet death.


End file.
